Unprecedented in the History of Children
by YouCareSoMuch
Summary: A collection of Rosamund Watson drabbles because I love her and the entire Baker street family. Title is from John's quote in S4E2: "And Rosie?" "Oh, beautiful, perfect. Unprecedented in the history of children. That's not my bias, that's scientific fact."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Love the idea of Uncle Greg. I own nothing.**

The new resident at 221b Baker Street was a perpetual source of distraction for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade whenever he called to consult Sherlock on a case.

The little girl, who was nearly a year old now, never failed to divert Greg from the matter at hand, much to Sherlock's consternation.

"I've got a tricky one for you, Sherlock: triple homici—Rosie! Hello, sweetie, how are you?"

Greg scooped the smiling girl into his arms and kissed her forehead.

Sherlock had raised his head from his microscope when Greg walked in, but upon seeing the Inspector was distracted by Rosie, he rolled his eyes and refocused the eye scope.

"Can you say Uncle Greg, Rosie? Uncle Greg?" Lestrade babbled to the baby. Rosie just smiled a toothless smile.

Sherlock took a minute to marvel at the ability all babies had to reduce normally respectable men into cooing fools. "Inspector, Rosie has only spoken incoherent syllables so far, I highly doubt she will be able to say 'Uncle Greg'. It's an inaccurate term, anyway, you're not related to John." Sherlock finished in a mutter.

Lestrade's smile didn't waver at Sherlock's pessimism. "Nonsense, she's the most intelligent girl I know, she'll be talking in no time."

Sherlock switched off the microscope and stood up, joining Lestrade in front of Rosie's playpen.

"Yes, well, she's my goddaughter, of course she's smart," Sherlock said taking Rosie out of Lestrade's arms and positioning her on his hip, "Now, I thought you came here because of a case? Not to make baby faces at John's daughter."

Greg began to explain the case that had brought him there, and if he sometimes reverted back to baby-talk when he caught Rosie's eye, neither of the men mentioned it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Had this plot bunny in my head for weeks. Inspired by my eight year old sister, who likes to sleep in my mom and dad's bed on occasion.**

An attentive ear can hear the sound of even the most quiet footsteps. Sherlock had an attentive ear, and there was someone trying to sneak across the living room floor on tiptoe.

Sherlock was reading a medical journal of John's for lack of anything better to do, and upon hearing the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps, he closed the journal and looked up at the little, blonde girl attempting to creep upstairs without Sherlock noticing.

"Rosamund, it is past your bedtime." Sherlock said.

The little girl froze on the third step. "How'd you hear me? My footsteps were very quiet because I'm on my tiptoes." Rosie spoke in a stage whisper that carried across the room.

"I have good hearing." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow at the four-year-old as if to say _no one moves in this flat without my knowledge._

Rosie looked up the stairs forlornly and then looked back at Sherlock.

"I wanna sleep in daddy's bed." She said softly. "My bed is lonely."

Sherlock observed the child's messy plaited hair and drowsy eyes. She had been waking up in the middle of the night and trekking up to John's room to sleep almost every other night over the last ten days. Sherlock usually managed to convince the already headstrong at four-years-old girl that her father needed sleep so she shouldn't disturb him, and she had to sleep in her own bed.

Tonight, Sherlock didn't bother. He'd read on a couple parenting websites—John mocked him for reading these, but a lot of them were helpful in taking care of their young charge—that most children find it comforting to sleep in their parent's beds on occasion and as long as the child knew that the arrangement wasn't permanent, it was alright to allow it.

"I'm sure your father won't mind one night." John probably would mind, but Sherlock would deal with that in the morning.

Rosie smiled at Sherlock, "No, daddy won't mind. I go to his room, now." And she waved at Sherlock and continued up the stairs.

A couple hours later, at around 2:00 am, Sherlock carefully opened John's bedroom door to see how the father and daughter were doing. Rosie was curled close to John's side and John looked content in sleep, one arm cradling his daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Very, very short.**

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock had no intention of spoiling Rosie. It was true that whenever the three of them went out for dinner, Sherlock allowed Rosie to get the most extravagant desserts that caught her eye, and any time Rosie expressed the wish for a new toy, Sherlock would immediately pull out his credit card and buy the toy online, but these were minor trifles which any godfather should do for his goddaughter.

When John came home from the clinic one day to see Sherlock attempting to make cookies while Rosie stood behind him making suggestions as to how much chocolate chips to add, he had a look of resignation on his face.

"She has got you wrapped around her finger, Sherlock." John said, glancing at the flour covering the table and Sherlock vigorously stirring the dough.

"Nonsense." Sherlock said, handing Rosie the spoon to lick and beginning to shape the dough into balls. "She asked for chocolate-chip cookies very politely, so I am rewarding her for her manners."

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that. And here I was thinking that Mrs. Hudson would be the one to spoil her."

"Mrs. Hudson does spoil her."

"Yeah, and Greg, and Mycroft. I think I'm the only one capable of saying 'no' to her."

"I'm not spoiling her." Sherlock said, putting the cookies in the oven, "I'm ensuring that her wants are fulfilled."

John began putting away the cookie ingredients, "You're ridiculous."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Ever notice how people just randomly pinch babies' cheeks? Like, babies of people they don't even know? This is inspired by that common happenstance. I own nothing.**

"The three of you make such a beautiful family!"

"Did you adopt? Or did you have a surrogate mother?"

"Which one of you is the biological father?"

Remarks like these were forever being shouted at Sherlock, John, and little Rosie when they went on what John called "outings". John bore it all fairly well; he was accustomed by now to assumptions about his and Sherlock's relationship, and he supposed the addition of a baby made people talk even more.

Far from explaining the complicated set of circumstances that led to John and Sherlock raising a child in their Baker Street flat, at these comments from gossiping neighbors, John just smiled placidly.

Sherlock had never paid attention to what people talk about, so the new crowd of people that obsessed over Rosie didn't bother him if they stayed well enough away.

It was when they gave Rosie lavish attention that Sherlock showed his displeasure.

"Oh, what a precious little girl. What's her name?" A woman said to John when the three of them were walking to get lunch.

"Rosie." John said, giving the beaming woman a courteous smile. Rosie was in her push-chair asleep and Sherlock stood at John's side scowling at the woman.

"Well, what a beautiful name for a beautiful girl!" She said, still beaming and reaching forward to touch Rosie's cheek.

Sherlock stepped forward and blocked the woman's hand as it came closer to Rosie's push-chair. "Don't put your hands on her. I understand that you are incapable of bearing children so you feel the need to caress every child you see, but kindly do not include my goddaughter in your pathetic search for comfort from the pain of infertility." Sherlock said, making the woman recoil violently and glare at him before scurrying away.

John sighed: Sherlock's hostility was nothing new. "What was that about? Are you going to be unnecessarily rude to everyone who compliments Rosie?"

"Yes. What makes these people think they have the right to run their filthy hands over every child they see? I intend to make _them"_ Sherlock said this word as though it was a hideous insult, "aware that your daughter is not to be touched."

John smiled at Sherlock, though Sherlock didn't face him. They continued walking, and John had a new appreciation for the extent of Sherlock's love for him and Rosie.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I think these are getting shorter. Oh well, that's why I called them 'drabbles'. I own nothing.**

When Rosie was three years old her favorite word was 'why'. Throughout the day John and Sherlock heard this word from Rosie's mouth frequently.

"What doing?" She said, toddling up to John when he was perusing the newspaper one evening. She was staring at John curiously, on little hand fiddling with the hem of her dress.

John smiled at his daughter and picked her up, settling her in his lap. "Reading the paper." He said.

"Why?" Rosie asked.

"To see the news." It was best to use sparse language with a three-year-old, something Sherlock refused to do.

Blue eyes focused on John, she asked again, "Why?"

"Uh, just for something to do, love." John said, cupping Rosie's cheek. "How about you go play with the new doll Mrs. Hudson got you?"

Rosie leaned back against John's chest. "Why?"

John sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Don't you like your new doll? Mrs. Hudson will be so pleased to see you playing with it."

"Why?"

"She loves you, Rose."

"Why?"

"You're lovable."

"Why?"

"Because—"

"It's impossible to have an intelligent conversation with someone whose vocabulary comprises five words." Sherlock interrupted from the door. He smirked at John as he unwrapped his scarf and pulled off his coat.

"Sh'lock!" Rosie squealed, sliding off John's lap and throwing her arms around Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock picked her up with a familiar ease, kissing her head almost absentmindedly.

"Considering one of those five words that she knows is 'murder', I have proof that you engage in conversation with her as often as I do. It's important to answer their questions, Sherlock, no matter how monosyllabic."

Sherlock wasn't paying attention, he was listening to Rosie as she talked in broken sentences about her day.


	6. Chapter 6

Two of the residents of 221b Baker Street were sick with a stomach virus that had been going around. First, John had picked it up from his job at the clinic, then, because telling Rosie that her father was sick and she couldn't go near him for a little while, didn't go over well, the five-year-old had gotten sick, leaving Sherlock to play nurse for the both of them.

Mrs. Hudson was amused to see Sherlock spraying disinfectant over every surface of their flat while wearing a surgical mask the day after John and Rosie had caught the virus.

"Oh, dear, who's sick?"

"Both of them." Sherlock said shortly, spraying John's armchair liberally. "Everything's gone to hell."

"Well, I just came up to tell you that I'm going to visit my sister for a bit, but I might cancel my visit if you need help..." Mrs. Hudson said, looking a little guilty.

"No, no, leave. It's a twenty-four hour virus, I am perfectly capable of taking care of it myself." Sherlock said, stubbornly refusing to ask for help.

"Oh, well, if you're sure." And Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile and left the room.

Sherlock had thought getting the landlady to leave would have been more difficult, considering how maternal she was.

Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs. He turned around to see John walking slowly down the steps, pale and weak.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

John looked up at him, "Rosie's hungry. I was going to make her something light so she could keep it down."

"What's that saying about how abominable doctors are as patients?" Sherlock muttered before stopping John with a hand to his chest. "Go back to bed. I'll make her some toast." He told John.

John looked absurdly grateful, "Really? You're okay with being caregiver?"

"Yes, of course, John, I'm perfectly willing to take care of the two most important people in my life. Go to bed, you look like you're about to keel over."

John smiled at him and made his way back up the stairs.

Sherlock brought the toast up to what he had termed the "quarantined room" a couple minutes later.

John was reading to Rosie in an effort to keep her entertained, because keeping a little girl in bed while she recovered from an illness required the same amount of effort as keeping a bored Sherlock from shooting the wall.

Both father and daughter looked pale and tired. The two of them had been vomiting and miserable since yesterday.

"Toast." Sherlock announced as he walked into the room, still wearing the surgical mask because he couldn't afford to get sick.

John gave him another tired smile and Rosie pushed herself into a sitting position.

"With jam?" The little girl inquired, her blond hair loose about her shoulders.

"No, just butter. If you manage to eat this without vomiting I'll make you another piece with jam."

Rosie looked quite pitifully disappointed. "Okay. Strawberry?"

"Yes, Rosie. Strawberry." Sherlock said, placing the two plates of toast in front of John and Rosie.

"What do you say to Dr. Sherlock?" John asked his daughter, taking a bite of the toast.

"Thank-you, Sherlock." Rosie said, smiling sweetly at Sherlock.

"At your service." Sherlock said, turning to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: A couple plot bunnies I've had stuck in my head since Rosie was introduced. I own nothing.**

Sherlock's affection for Rosie exceeded all John's expectations of the man that he had known for almost ten years. In all the time he had known Sherlock, the detective had never expressed emotion so openly as he did with Rosie.

Rosie would listen to Sherlock expound case theories sometimes. The little girl adored Sherlock, and it showed in these moments on her expressive face.

One day Sherlock came to a breakthrough in the case he was working on while talking it out to Rosie. John watched the familiar expression come across Sherlock's face, the one that meant all the pieces had just come together.

"Oh, Rosie, you're brilliant!" Sherlock had said, and he had swooped down, picked the giggling girl up, and kissed her on the forehead.

Rosie drifted off to sleep at night to violin music. She became so accustomed to the orchestral lullaby that she refused to go to sleep without it on the nights when Sherlock was out on some case-related errand. He played her his own compositions as well as songs that John had named his favorites.

Rosie found Sherlock's moments of deep thought very amusing. When Sherlock was lost to the world, engrossed in his Mind Palace, Rosie tiptoed up to his armchair, in which he was sitting motionless, hands steepled as usual, and crawl into his lap. The longer it took for Sherlock to notice that she had joined him on the chair, the more Rosie giggled. Eventually, Sherlock would come back to himself, blinking and looking down at the little girl, and Rosie would give a final guffaw and tuck her head under his chin. Sherlock invariably rolled his eyes affectionately and wrapped his arms around her.

John loved watching them in these moments. His daughter and his best friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Can 700 words still be called a drabble? I don't care. This is inspired by a dream I had where I was a waitress serving Sherlock and John. Its in a waitress' pov at a restaurant whose name is not disclosed. Review and tell me what you think! I don't own Sherlock, John, or Rosie, but I do own my OC waitress.**

Vivian was nearing the end of her shift when she approached the table with two men and a small child. The child—a little girl—looked to be about four or five, and she was dressed in a white dress printed with cartoon bumblebees. Looking at the trio as she walked over, Vivian's first thought was that the men were married and the girl was either adopted or the biological child of one of the men and a surrogate mother.

When Vivian stopped next to the table and smiled, giving the trio the standard waitress greeting (Hello, how are you all this evening? Etc, etc…) she recognized the famous detective and his friend Dr. Watson. So, the girl must be Rosie Watson, well-known to readers of Dr. Watson's now infamous blog. Vivian wondered how on earth she hadn't recognized them before, as she was constantly on Dr. Watson's blog. She hoped her excitement about meeting the men she had been reading the adventures of for years didn't show on her face.

Dr. Watson gave Vivian an obligatory smile after she delivered her automatic greeting. He seemed too preoccupied with getting his small daughter to settle down in her booster seat and stop trying to throw the silverware to acknowledge the waitress verbally. As for Sherlock Holmes, he was looking at a photograph of a decapitated corpse lying on a dusty floor. Most likely a victim from the latest case, Vivian thought, her eyes leaving the gruesome picture as quickly as she had glanced at it.

"May I take your drink orders?" Vivian asked, a mega-watt smile on her face.

Rosie piped up in answer, speaking in a shrill, sweet voice, "I'm firsty, daddy!" By 'firsty', the child probably meant 'thirsty'. Vivian had a couple younger siblings and she knew that most children struggled to pronounce that tricky "th" sound.

"Yes, Rosie, dear, I know. Drinks would be great." Dr. Watson said, the last sentence directed at Vivian. And then, to the detective, "Sherlock, forget about the crime scene for a moment. It'd be nice to eat one meal without the danger of accidentally looking at those nauseating pictures."

Sherlock Holmes grumbled. "We don't even have our meal yet. I can examine it for a little while longer." The great detective sounded almost as childlike as the five-year-old beside him, and Vivian rather thought Dr. Watson resembled a single father with two kids in the way the man was trying to make sure Sherlock and Rosie were on their best behavior.

Vivian didn't know what made her do it, but instead of asking all three diners individually what they would like to drink, she turned to Sherlock and asked, "What would the Watsons like to drink?" She could've died right there of embarrassment. Why was she asking the detective to display his powers of deduction and mind-reading as if it were a carnival trick?

Sherlock Holmes looked amused, though, so Vivian relaxed. "Rosie wants a lemonade, but she already had three glasses of the sugary substance this morning—"

Dr. Watson interrupted, "Because her godfather is incapable of saying 'no'."

Sherlock resumed, "Yes. Therefore, her father wants her to have either milk or water. John would have ordered a beer if his daughter wasn't here, since we are joined by Rosie, however, he will have a coffee." Sherlock said all this with the complete confidence of a man who knows his friend very well.

Dr. Watson rolled his eyes and smiled. "Exactly right, as always."

Vivian scribbled on her notepad, "And your order, sir?" She asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, "Coffee as well."

"Can I have lemonade, daddy? Please?" Rosie looked at her father with imploring blue eyes.

Dr. Watson shook his head and kissed Rosie on the nose. "Sorry, love, I don't yield to those beautiful eyes as easily as Sherlock."

Vivian smiled at the three of them. It was a very different smile than the forced, painful smiles she normally gave to diners. Being a waitress was a thankless job, but occasionally there were rewards. Like meeting your internet heroes. "I'll be right back with those drinks." She said.

"Thanks." Dr. Watson said.

Vivian couldn't wait to tell her friends about this chance meeting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: This was written quite quickly. I do not own Sherlock or** _ **Green Eggs and Ham.**_ **Tell me what you think! Reviews are love, reviews are life.**

Rosie liked Dr. Seuss. Sherlock did not, which, knowing the man, was not a huge surprise.

John read Dr. Seuss books to Rosie to put her down for a nap and before bedtime; when he read aloud to his little girl, John could almost feel Sherlock's annoyance emanating from him.

"'I do not like them, Sam-I-am. I do not like green eggs and ham.'" John read in a silly voice to make Rosie laugh.

Rosie obliged, letting out a tinkling laugh, accompanied by a surprised, "Green eggs? Eggs aren't green, daddy!" Rosie was wearing a fluffy, purple tutu and a lavender shirt and she was sitting on John's lap. The tutu was one of her favorite items of clothing, but the way it covered everything with glitter made John less than pleased. She was happy now, but in a couple minutes, when John told her it was time to take her nap, she would pout and cry and try to delay the inevitable rest time.

John smiled. "Are you sure?" He said, in response to Rosie's proclamation.

"Yes! Eggs're white!" Rosie explained, then she thought for a moment, putting a finger to her lips, "Also yellow." She finished.

In the middle of this exchange, Sherlock had emerged from the kitchen, a look of disapproval on his face.

"What exactly is this teaching children?" Sherlock said, before John could continue reading _Green Eggs and Ham._

John looked over at Sherlock and shrugged. "How to rhyme?" John suggested.

Rosie piped up, "Sherlock, did you know that eggs can be green?"

"I'm quite sure that eggs cannot be green, Rosie. Not unless they're well beyond their expiration date." Sherlock said, walking over and inspecting the cover of the children's book.

Rosie giggled.

John finished reading the book to an audience of two people. Rosie was riveted to the story, while Sherlock scoffed after almost every page.

"Alright, it's naptime." John said.

Rosie, as expected, stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. "Don't want to." She mumbled.

"Come on, dear. I'm going to make Sherlock take a nap too." John said.

Rosie said, "Really?", with a bright smile on her face, and Sherlock looked slightly outraged.

John responded to Rosie's question and Sherlock's look, "Yes, he needs to sleep. He's been awake for almost three days and nights on a case."

Sherlock sighed and agreed to rest as John carried Rosie up to bed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Hastily thrown together because I haven't updated anything in a while. Hope you like it, though! Tell me what you think! I own nothing.**

John had taken the night shift at the clinic very reluctantly, as he wasn't sure that Sherlock could handle putting Rosie to bed by himself.

"Her bedtime is 7:30, Sherlock, so start the bedtime routine at 7:00." John reminded the detective, hovering by the door and not wanting to leave for work until he was sure Sherlock knew what to do. "She likes to be tucked in, and it is getting cold out, so make sure she has two blankets. Her nightlight—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, looking up from the jigsaw puzzle he was doing with Rosie, "I've watched you put her to bed for five years now. I know what to do."

John sighed. "Yeah. I know. Be good for Sherlock, Rosie." John said, smiling at his daughter.

Rosie beamed back, "Okay, daddy."

"Text me if you have any questions, Sherlock. This is the one time that I will respond to any of your texts automatically." John said, walking out of the door and banishing his latent worry. "Goodbye!"

Later that night, Sherlock successfully completed Rosie's bedtime routine—which involved brushing her teeth, putting on her pajamas, and reading her a story—and soothed the child to sleep by playing several lullabies on his violin.

Sherlock nodded to himself in satisfaction. With all of John's worrying, Sherlock had thought putting Rosie to bed would be hard. Sherlock was quite proud of himself for two hours, but that pride vanished the moment Rosie woke up crying.

Sherlock dashed up the stairs at the sound of the first sob and entered the crying child's room panicked. Rosie was awake and tangled in her blankets. Even in the dark, Sherlock could see the tears glistening in her blue eyes. He approached the bed, and without hesitation, he gathered the crying child into his arms. Rosie clung to him, tears rolling down her face.

"I fell, Sherlock! Into a big pit! It w-was so dark and I couldn't stop falling!" Rosie said, her voice shaky.

Sherlock hushed her, and kissed her tangled hair. "It's alright. It was a dream."

"I was falling so fast." Rosie whispered, burying her face in Sherlock's shirt.

"It wasn't real." Sherlock said patiently, rubbing her back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "Nightmares come from weaknesses in your subconscious."

To Sherlock's surprise, Rosie giggled a little. "What?" He inquired, looking down at the child in his arms.

"That's what daddy thought you'd say."

"Your father guessed what I would say to you in the event of a nightmare?"

"He said you would try to explain bad dreams with logic." Rosie said, her tears tapering off.

Sherlock smiled. "He knows me well."

Rosie yawned in response. She had stopped crying, but she still clung tightly to Sherlock. Sherlock rocked back and forth in an attempt to lull her back to sleep. He sat with his legs crossed on Rosie's bed, holding her in his lap until she fall asleep again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Tell me what you think! I own nothing.**

Whenever Mrs. Hudson took care of Rosie, Rosie was guaranteed two things: cookies, and braided hair. As a girl, Mrs. Hudson braided her own hair, which used to be quite long, as well as her sister's hair. Braiding John's daughter's hair now was like continuing a tradition.

Rosie had the patience of her father; it took a while these days for Mrs. Hudson to bully her old fingers into successfully plaiting the girl's thin blond hair. Rosie sat still and held her tiny shoulders back, emulating John's ramrod posture while Mrs. Hudson made her fingers work their childhood magic. Rosie was always pleased with the results.

Sherlock thought the braiding process was fascinating, judging by the way he would stand behind Mrs. Hudson as she completed a Dutch or French braid, bright eyes intently focused on the intricate weaving.

"Do you want me to teach you how to plait, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock while she finished Rosie's braided pigtails.

Sherlock switched his intense focus from Rosie's hair to Mrs. Hudson's face.

"It seems simple enough. Gather a section of hair at the top of the head and split the section into three pieces. Then, cross the section furthest to the right under the middle section, beginning to add hair to each strand as you weave." Sherlock said confidently.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded, unsurprised that Sherlock had learned the steps so easily.

Rosie said, "I want Sherlock to try!"

"Are you not happy with my work, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling warmly to let Rosie know she wasn't offended.

Rosie examined her hair in the mirror, running her hand along the long plait and said, "No, its good. But I want Sherlock to try it. He has fast fingers 'cause he plays the violin."

Sherlock was up for the challenge, as usual. He unbraided Rosie's hair quickly but gently and proceeded to redo the same braid with professional speed.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, "As I suspected, it is as easy in practice as it is in theory. This is a French braid, yes? Let's see if my attempt at a Dutch braid brings the same success."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and went to start her chores. Trust Sherlock to turn the braiding of a little girl's hair into a data-driven experiment."

 **A/N: I love the idea of Sherlock braiding her hair, its such a cute thing to picture!**


End file.
